Gone
by sherlocks-skeletal-warlock
Summary: John and Sherlock are at each others throats until John is kidnapped, leaving Sherlock with a dangerous choice. Written about 3 months after John finds out about Sherlock being alive after the Fall. Rated T for torture and suicidal thoughts, not naughty reasons. Angst and Johnlock in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first fanfiction for Sherlock, so please be nice! Tell me what you think of chapter 1!**

**Chapter 1**

Sherlock paced the living room and John watched him. The dark-haired man was obviously deep in thought and John knew how much he hated to be disturbed, so he just watched. He didn't know quite why he was watching Sherlock Holmes with such intensity, but it seemed right somehow. As John watched Sherlock, he noticed things. He noticed the wild fluttering of those grey-blue eyes and the constant movement of his long slender fingers, tapping the air as if playing the violin. This kind of rapid hand movement and inability to keep still was a common in musicians, especially professionals and John found it endearing. No. No, Sherlock wasn't endearing or the least bit attractive, John thought quickly. Because I am not gay. I am straight and that is that.

"John?" Sherlock's deep baritone shattered John's mental argument between his head and his heart.

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Oh, it wasn't suicide. The facts don't add up to suicide. It was most obviously murder, just a clever one. The murderer died though, and that was suicide."

"Sherlock, there was only one body. How?"

"The murderer was taken away by the police. Lestrade told me."

"Would have been nice to know these things," John grumbled. "Anyway, we're out of milk so I'm going to the shops, need anything?" But Sherlock didn't answer. He had picked up his violin and was now proceeding to play a short piece that he was mid-way through composing. Without warning, John snapped. He was sick of being the sidekick, the dogsbody, not even worth Sherlock's voice most of the time. He cared for this man and looked after him but he wasn't even an equal. Not anywhere near Sherlock's level because he was ordinary and Sherlock didn't deal with ordinary people.

"You know something, Sherlock; you are the most annoying, arrogant, selfish person I have ever met. All these things I do for you; I keep you healthy; treat you when you need it; save your ungrateful arse; put up with you when nobody else will and I am not even treated as an equal. I'm just the sidekick, the accessory, the dogsbody. Stupid Watson who doesn't need to be treated like an equal because he can't see things like me, the genius Sherlock Holmes. I won't even grace him with my voice or acknowledge his existence because he is beneath me. And I've had enough, Sherlock, I really have. So this time when I leave, I won't be coming back." John marched towards the door, the smothering silence filling the flat. He left.

…

Sherlock listened as the flat door slammed shut after John. He raised his head slowly, put down his violin and steepled his fingers. For a reason that Sherlock was unsure of, he was suddenly regretful of how he had treated John. John has obviously been more than just another person, he had been the first friend Sherlock had ever had and he had pushed him away, like he had done with everyone else: Mycroft, Molly, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and his mother. Everyone had left him because Sherlock had made them and now he had done the same to John. He felt guilty and ashamed which immediately shocked him. He thought he had deleted all 'feelings' long ago. Sherlock drew himself, gathered the feelings and deleted them. He let out a sigh of relief and began to play again.

…

John sat in the empty park, breathing hard as the realisation sunk in. He'd told Sherlock about some of his feelings, yes, but only the negative ones. And he couldn't go back to 221B because he said that he wasn't coming back and he was in no mind to go begging back to Sherlock. As he was so wrapped up in his thoughts, John didn't see the man until it was too late. Something heavy cracked against the back of his head, causing white stars to explode behind his eyes. Then thick cloth was pressed over his mouth and nose, forcing him to breathe in the noxious fumes. Chloroform, John thought as he blacked out…


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When John opened his eyes, he was shrouded in darkness and his head was throbbing intensely. His arms were tied above his head and his feet did not touch the ground. So, John thought, I'm in a darkened place, probably a disused warehouse, hanging by my arms from a beam most likely and I am shirtless. Well, this is a new experience. A small smile wriggled on John's face but it quickly evaporated as his captors came into view. There were three of them, a tall blonde man with a thickset jaw and a broken nose, a black-haired woman who was wearing not a lot of clothes and another man, short, bald and stocky. They were all smirking. John put on a brave face and stuck out his chin without a word.

"Ooh, we've got ourselves a fighter, here, haven't we?" The blonde man asked, roughly grabbing John's chin. The other two laughed cruelly and John showed no fear. The bald man nodded to the woman and she pulled out a thick whip. John knew what was coming next and he braced himself for the impact. She disappeared out of his line of sight and the next thing he knew was pain. Without his shirt to soften the blow, the whip tore through John's flesh, drawing blood. She struck again, this time to his side and then again and John realised that she was circling him, the same way a hawk would circle prey before lashing out and slapping him with the whip. He screwed his eyes shut, trying not to make a sound as lash after lash struck his body, leaving deep gashes. At around 20 lashes, John whimpered weakly. By 30 he was screaming and by 40, he was losing consciousness from blood-loss and pain. It was around then that they stopped and began to play the game.

…

Sherlock was sat in the flat when the phone rang. He picked it up.

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes speaking."

"Hello, Mister Holmes," came a rough voice from the other end of the telephone connection. "Someone wants to speak to you." There was a pause as the phone changed callers and then a pain-cracked, raw voice gasped,

"Sher… Sherlock." Sherlock almost dropped the phone in surprise.

"John? John, where are you?"

"Don't know. Shwerlock, Sherllock, help." John's voice was slurred as he began to lose his already weak grip on consciousness.

"What have you done to John?" Sherlock asked the phone, his voice louder than intended.

"You'll find out soon. Until the next time, Holmes. Until the next time." There was a long beep as the connection broke and Sherlock took the phone away from his ear with shaking hands. John had been taken by someone and he sounded almost unconscious. His blogger. And the last conversation they had had was an argument. Sherlock ground his teeth together and looked at his phone. The number that had called him was blocked, making it impossible to track. Then his phone pinged, signalling that he had a new text, again from a blocked number. Frowning, Sherlock opened the text and almost dropped his phone. It was a picture message, showing a scarily high-quality photo of a short, blonde army doctor, hanging by his hands which were tied to a pole above his head. John's blue-brown eyes were half open and his face was haggard and drawn. But that wasn't the worst of it. His whole upper body was covered in long, bleeding gashes which could have only been caused by a whip. Sherlock's free fist tightened and he hissed through his teeth. His first thought was to go to Lestrade but then what would John's captors do? As if in answer, his phone rang.

"Sherllock? Don't go to My, Mycroft. Or they'll kkill me. And don't go to the pl poli police but you can g go to Lestrade, ah as long as nobody else kno, knows. Don't know why, gotta tell you this but… pointing gun at me, so I'm not arguing… Help. Me, Sherlock. Please?" John's exhausted voice was cut off and Sherlock stayed stock still. Then he made up his mind and set off for Scotland Yard.

…

John's eyes stung as the bald man took the phone away from his ear roughly. The woman was still pointing a handgun at him but he wasn't scared. Sherlock knew now and he would find him. But for now, John had other things to worry about; he was losing consciousness quickly from blood-loss and who knows what might happen if he passed out. He concentrated on keeping his eyes open and not what his captors were doing. They couldn't, wouldn't help him so he worked alone. But as Sherlock had once said, "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." Of course, alone didn't really protect people but it was all he had.

…

Detective Inspector Lestrade was having a bad day. Sergeant Donovan and Forensics Scientist Anderson had had an argument and so were not talking to each other, making cases nearly impossible. The chief Superintendent had given him 2 more hours to solve a particularly hard case or he'd be sacked and to top it all off, the only man who could help him, Sherlock Holmes, wasn't answering his phone. Lestrade stormed up to his office, Anderson and Donovan trailing behind him, bickering constantly. Swinging his office door open, Lestrade came face to face with a grey-eyed man with wild curly black hair and shaking fingers.

"Sherlock?" asked Lestrade, noticing the abrupt appearance and distress of the detective.

"Well, Freak, what do you want?" asked Donovan. "We can solve…" She trailed off at the look of pure fear and hatred that shadowed Sherlock's face. He nodded towards the door and Lestrade understood immediately.

"Get out," he said quietly. When Donovan and Anderson didn't leave, Lestrade got angry. "I said, GET OUT!" They disappeared and he shut the door. He looked at Sherlock, who was now pacing his office, wringing his hands crazily. Frowning, Lestrade asked, "Sherlock, you okay? You look… well, scared." Sherlock spun around so fast that he was a blur.

"John's been kidnapped."

"What?"

"John and I had an argument this morning and John left. About 2 hours later, I got a phone call from his captors and they put him on. He sounded so utterly exhausted… Then they sent me a picture of him. This was 20 minutes ago." Sherlock pulled out his phone and showed it to Lestrade. He took a step back and gasped.

"What? Oh no, are they?"

"Whip lashes, yes," Sherlock completed for him. "They've been torturing my John."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John didn't remember passing out but when he woke up, he was alone. His captors had vanished and his wounds were stinging and throbbing horribly. Closing his eyes, he ran through the memories of the last hour or so. The pain of the whip, the quiet anger in Sherlock's voice on the phone and flash of the camera as they took a picture of him for Sherlock chased each other around John's head. He hated himself for being so stupid and now Sherlock would be trying to get him out of there, which will almost certainly end up with Sherlock getting hurt. John would never want Sherlock hurt. After about 10 minutes, his captors returned and John opened his eyes. In front of him there was a laptop, and on that laptop, there was a video feed showing a very shocked Sherlock Holmes.

…

Sherlock hated waiting. He was waiting for the kidnappers to make a mistake, a small slip that would lead him to John, but there was nothing. The only picture he had showed only John and darkness around him, nothing else. His laptop lay open on the desk in front of him and Lestrade was pacing his office. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock steepled his hands and sighed. Then, without warning, his laptop screen went black and a video feed appeared on it, showing John. John had his eyes shut and was still tied up, his injuries as frightful as ever. Looking and feeling shell-shocked, Sherlock whimpered almost silently and John opened his eyes.

"John…" gasped Sherlock. John's eyes were dulled with pain but he looked lucid enough.

"Sherlock… good to see you," John breathed. Lestrade rushed over and looked at the laptop.

"Bloody hell, John!"

"Greg… nice to see you too." A small smile slid on to his face but was almost immediately replaced by a grimace of pain. A hooded person stepped into view, wearing a mask on the lower half of its face. Pulling a face, Sherlock noted that the kidnappers had thought of everything; he couldn't tell anything about where John was or who had him because of the location and the hood and voice-changing mask. Or at least Sherlock presumed that was what the mask was for; otherwise it would be a pretty pointless mask. The captor began to speak and Sherlock knew he was right – the voice sounded robotic and monotonous.

"Good afternoon gentlemen. Well, it's good for me, not so sure about you." The figure gestured to someone off screen and another hooded figure walked in holding a cloth and a bucket. John seemed to know what was going happen and Sherlock was already guessing. John writhed in his bonds, his small body swaying from side to side.

"This is a wonderful mixture of bleach and saltwater, a superb mixture for torture," said the first figure as the second pulled on a pair of gloves and dipped the cloth into the substance. Sherlock's heart crawled into his mouth but he couldn't tear his eyes away because of pure horror. No, it was more than that. He knew that John wanted him to stay, so he stayed. The first figure disappeared off the camera and the second raised the dripping cloth to a gash on John's chest, almost laughing at John's futile struggling. Sherlock noticed that, in order to keep John still, they had also chained his ankles to the floor. But then Sherlock stopped noticing as the cloth was pressed the cut and John screamed. Lestrade fell over and Sherlock gripped the table so hard he almost broke it as the captor; almost loving stroked the dripping wet cloth on to John's wounds. His screams almost broke Sherlock's speakers; they were so loud and tears frequently fell from his eyes. Sherlock yelled angrily, rage taking over his body but then the captor threw the bucket over John, drenching him in the agonizing substance and John screamed. He screamed so loud and with so much pain that Sherlock entirely broke and started to cry.

"No, no, no… John… please stop, please," Sherlock begged. The first figure appeared again and said in that robotic monotonous voice,

"Goodbye Mr Holmes." And the screen went black. Sherlock stood up for a second and then his legs wouldn't take his weight and he collapsed, sobbing silently, beside Lestrade


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hope this sorts out the Sherlock OCness and please R&R! Tell me if there are any **grammar** or spelling mistakes. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

Lestrade was shocked with Sherlock's behaviour. Of course, he was utterly disgusted by the treatment of John and terrified for his well-being but Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath, was crying. Crying for John. Sociopath? thought Lestrade. No way. He was unsure what to do now; he badly wanted to comfort Sherlock but he didn't know how to. Luckily, Donovan took that moment to enter Lestrade's office and begin to talk.

"Lestrade, there's been a murder." He stood up and looked at Donovan and Anderson (he'd appeared behind her) who were frowning at the curled up, sobbing figure of the world's only Consulting Detective. "What's wrong with Freak?" she asked. "Somebody steal his scarf? Or maybe his skull? And where's his handler; where's John?" At these taunts, Lestrade got angry, really angry.

"I don't believe, _Sergeant _Donovan, that it is any concern of yours where John Watson is or why Sherlock Holmes is crying. Oh and I'll have you know, that he is neither a sociopath nor a psychopath and if you insult him or John again, you'll have no job. Is that clear?" Anderson and Donovan nodded quickly and hurried from the office. Lestrade knelt next to Sherlock, who had stopped crying but was still curled up.

"Have they gone?" Sherlock's deep baritones were muffled by his coat.

"Yeah. There's nobody else here, Sherlock." Sherlock climbed off the floor, a look of smug happiness on his face which was the last expression Lestrade expected to see. "Sherlock?" Sherlock looked at him and sighed happily.

"Sorry for that; I needed to see their reaction to me. So it's me they want, but why did they then take John? To hurt me?" Sherlock mused, almost ignoring Lestrade.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, but what? That was just a trick and you don't care about John at all?"

"What? No, of course I care about John but I don't cry. Well, not out of sentiment anyway… I needed to see the captors' reactions. They turned off the camera when I started crying, meaning that they had achieved their goal, which obviously was to hurt me. If it had been to hurt John, then they would have let John watch me cry, knowing that that would only hurt John more. This is good," Sherlock explained, still smirking.

"Why? Why is that good?" Lestrade asked, obviously still missing something.

"Because if they wanted to hurt John, they would do that and then kill him. If they wanted to hurt me, they would keep him alive so that they could torture him more to get to me. It gives us more time to find John."

"But now they know that it hurts you, they'll torture John more," Lestrade pointed out.

"Then let's try and find John before they can inflict too much damage!" Sherlock exclaimed and Lestrade was happy to find him back to his rational self.

…

As soon as Sherlock started crying, John knew it was faked. Sherlock would never cry out of sentiment, only anger and so John knew it must have been a tactic to try and get him out of there. He was still in agony so he tried to concentrate on something other than the pain. Settling on one thing, John replayed the memory in his head. It was about three months old and had been a wonderful and dreadful day at the same time.

_It had been five years to the day since he'd met Sherlock Holmes and over three years since he had committed suicide. John was haggard and tired; a mere shell of the person he used to be. He texted Sherlock's old disconnected phone one last time._

_**Thank you, Sherlock, for being there for me and helping me when I was broken from Afghanistan. I miss you, so much, but that doesn't matter now. See you soon.**_

_And then John Watson raised his revolver to his mouth, shoving the barrel between his teeth. _

"_I love you, Sherlock and now I'm coming to join you," he whispered, choking on the words. His fingers tested the trigger and just as he was about to pull it, the door to the flat was thrown open and a rather dishevelled-looking Sherlock Holmes stood there. _

"_John Watson. Put that gun down this instant." John immediately dropped the gun, staring open mouthed at the man who was supposed to be dead. Surprise was then over taken by anger and John punched Sherlock straight in the face._

John smiled weakly as he remembered punching Sherlock. He had then apologised and after Sherlock had explained his 3-year absence and supposed suicide, he had forgiven him. Life at 221B had gone on as normal for a little while until this. No, thought John. It had not been the same; they both had snapped angrily at each other and become more wary. It was as if something had changed between them, as if they both needed to say something desperately but they couldn't because they feared how the other would react. But then this had happened and life had immediately got very real again.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry this is a shortish one, I've been busy. Thank you for following and favouriting and reviewing! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

Chapter 5

Sherlock paced the empty flat, deep in his mind palace. Sifting through the memories, he muttered developments aloud to his skull but it didn't seem right. Before John had come to live with him, Sherlock had been used to the silence and no replies from anyone about his observations, but now he found himself waiting for John's confused "What? How do you know that, Sherlock?" and he found himself missing John. Missing him wasn't that weird, was it? A strange, unnameable emotion rollicked in his stomach, making Sherlock uneasy. What was it? Was it fear? Or hatred? Or was it… was it… love? As soon as he thought that, his heart sang and his head screamed. Sherlock, always trusting his head, pushed the thought far from his mind and carried on surveying the facts. Except that there weren't many solid facts to survey. Sherlock knew that John was somewhere near the sea, or a saltwater lake (How else would the captors have got saltwater?) and that the captors got him there in about 1 hour and a half. But the problem was the Thames was saltwater and it only took 15 minutes to get there and it was huge, with miles and miles of old factories and warehouses down the sides. John could be in any of them and Sherlock assumed that he would be in a disused factory or warehouse by the darkness in the photos and just that that would be the most likely place to put a hostage. He knew nothing about the captors other than there were more than one. Sighing grumpily, Sherlock threw himself on to the sofa and closed his eyes. No sooner had he done this, his phone rang. He picked it up.

"Sherlock, have you got anywhere with John?" Lestrade's voice sounded tinny and hollow on the phone.

"No, not really. These captors know what they are doing and they know my reputation. I have no leads…" It felt weird saying that. Sherlock Holmes, great detective, stumped. He pulled a face and listened to Lestrade babbling on.

…

When John opened his eyes, it was dark. The sliver of light that had filtered through one of the badly boarded up windows had vanished, telling him it was late at night. For a moment, he wondered if Sherlock was still awake but then he realised how empty that statement was. Of course Sherlock was still awake; he basically never slept. He hoped Sherlock was looking for him, but he didn't know whether or not to hold out hope. He never knew what to think when it came to Sherlock. He was a puzzle that was impossible to solve, a code that was unbreakable, a picture that was unfathomable. And John loved him for it. Before his head could mentally slap his heart, a loud, clear sound cut through the silence and John screamed.

…

Sherlock was waiting. Again. His fingers danced through his curly black hair and his grey eyes flitted from spot to spot around the room. Then, without warning, his laptop displayed a video feed of a darkened place. Sherlock squinted and made out John's outline but before he could say anything, there was a gunshot and John screamed. The screen returned to his desktop and Sherlock sat, eyes wide, heart beating, hoping beyond hope that they had not killed John. The unfamiliar emotions continued to gurgle in Sherlock's stomach and he tried to push the away, to delete them, to forget they ever existed but they kept coming back. Curling up into a ball, Sherlock slowed his breathing and watched nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed and favourited and followed this! Love you! Here's chapter 6, enjoy! **

_**Italics are flash backs if you didn't know**_

**Disclaimer: I own nothing…. Except Alec but he doesn't really count. **

Chapter 6

Lestrade was sat in his office, going through a few case files, when his phone rang.

"Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking."

"Lestrade," came Sherlock's familiar baritone. "I need to speak to you." Lestrade was confused; whatever it was had a great importance to Sherlock because otherwise he would have just texted. Sherlock never called any one unless it was very important.

"Okay Sherlock, come up here. See you in 15 minutes." Lestrade hung up and put away the cases, wondering about what could be so important to Sherlock. Then it hit him. Something had happened to John. Sherlock had been sent another video or photo and something bad had happened. About five minutes later, the door was flung open and Sherlock strode in. He looked wilder than ever; black hair mussed, pale grey eyes crazy and a slight twitch in his hands.

"Sherlock, what happened?"

"I got another video. It was short, no more than 30 seconds but it was dark and I couldn't see anything, except John's outline. There…" Here Sherlock faltered, breathing heavily.

"There was what, Sherlock?"

"A gun shot. And John's scream." Sherlock's voice was barely above silent, his head turned away from Lestrade so that he couldn't see his expression. This was the most emotion, true emotion that Lestrade had ever seen from the detective and he realised that he cared a lot about John; he just couldn't show it.

Before he could question Sherlock, Sherlock's phone went off. He pulled it out of his pocket and tapped the screen, presumably opening the message. Lestrade stared at him, waiting for the response to the text. It came sooner than expected. Yelling in anger, the dark-haired man restrained from crushing the phone in one grip. Then the anger abated and the shaking started and Lestrade knew that only one thing could make Sherlock act that way: a picture of John. He walked over to the detective and looked at the picture. It showed an unconscious John, still shirtless and bound, with a bullet-hole in his right shoulder weeping blood and another shot in his hip at the same side. His wounds were inflamed and worse than ever, showing clear signs of more sponge baths in bleach and saltwater. Lestrade looked at Sherlock, who seemed to be thinking. The detective's eyes were shut tight and his breathing was shallow. Then he muttered something, almost silently, under his breath

"I said maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me. And after all, you're my wonder wall." Lestrade frowned realising that Sherlock had just sung the chorus of 'Wonder wall' by Oasis. He thought of the meaning of the song; John had saved Sherlock, saved him from himself and Lestrade owed John because of that. John was Sherlock's wonder wall, the only person who could put up with him and the only person who could tell him things, the only person he listened to.

"We'll find him, Sherlock. And we'll get him back."

…

John was unsure how long he had been there, bound and trapped. The hours all seemed to melt into one long pain-filled nightmare. Even his waking hours were fuzzy and grey, filled with torture. Blinking repetitively, he began to assess his current situation, despite the agony he was obviously in. His right was badly wounded with a deep gun-shot. Well, now I'm symmetrical, John thought dryly. His left wrist seemed to be dislocated and his whole torso ached and stung with hundreds of lash wounds. To add to all that, he also had a gun shot to his hip. John knew that he would severely damaged for a long time after this. If there was an 'after this'. John's mind began to shut down once again as the captors gave him his hourly (at least John thought it was hourly) bleach and saltwater sponge bath. Just before he was about to give in to the agony, John heard the captors say Sherlock's name.

"And Sherlock Holmes will come; he'd do anything for his Johnny boy. Then we can get rid of him and his meddling ways once and for all." The captor seemed to notice John's consciousness and hissed in his ear, "And there's nothing you can do about it." John felt the sharp sting of a needle and the drug flowed into his bloodstream, awakening him, paralysing him and setting his nerves on fire. After a few seconds, the pain in his nerves receded but John was still paralysed and unable to fall into the welcoming blackness. He saw a poker, tip white-hot, held by a hooded and masked figure. The figure approached and waved the poker in John's face. John knew what was coming next but he couldn't struggle; he could only watch, terrified, as the captor pressed the tip of the poker to the middle of John's chest, just over his heart and begin to write. The pain was unimaginable, unbearable and almost the end of John's sanity. Only Sherlock kept him from giving in to the madness because Sherlock needed him and John would always be there for him. Always. The smell of burnt flesh sent John's mind flashing back to Afghanistan.

_He ran, hands over his head to protect him from the bullets when the grenade went off. John ran to the nearest casualty, a child, a civilian caught up in the conflict. The boy couldn't have been older than 10 and most of his body was burnt. He tried to speak but John shushed him, massaging cooling ointment into the third degree wounds on the boy's legs. _

"_Why you do this?" he asked in small, slightly scared voice._

"_I can't leave you to die; you're just a child and I'm a doctor."_

"_You friends, die, yes?" John understood what the boy was saying even though his English was faulting._

"_I don't have any friends out here. Just comrades and your life is just as good as theirs." The boy was silent for a moment, and then he said,_

"_Me Alec, you?" _

"_John. Doctor John Watson." Alec smiled a truly peaceful smile._

"_Thank you John. Thank you." Alec's eyes fluttered shut and he fell still. John had lost him._

John's scream was not only of agony but now of loss. He should have been quicker, should have saved Alec but he didn't and he would never be able to forgive himself for that. Finally, the darkness claimed him and John lost consciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Here's chapter 7! Sorry it's so short… I've been busy. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, least of all the stolen Doctor Who quotes**

Chapter 7

Sherlock wanted to die. He had been so, so stupid and now he just wanted to not exist anymore. It was his arrogance that had got John kidnapped; he could see that now and if he wasn't careful, the same arrogance would get John killed. The kidnappers had sent another message, another video of John and this time they had made their intentions clear. Sherlock remembered the anger that flooded his body, seeing what they had done to John. Closing his eyes, he tried to erase the picture of John's broken body with the word demon branded clearly onto his chest – just above his heart.

"Two hours, Sherlock Holmes. Come to us or we'll kill Johnny Boy here. You know where we are now so come alone. Not even Lestrade must know or we'll kill Johnny Boy anyway. You got that?"

Sherlock had nodded, not trusting his voice and they were right; he did know where they were now – the kidnappers had told him. Not the most original or extraordinary of findings but it could get him to John. That had been half an hour ago. He needed to get going. Leaving the flat with the usual flair, Sherlock strode down the street without calling for a cab. It was about half an hour on foot at Sherlock's pace to the warehouse where they were keeping John and Sherlock tried to work the reason the kidnappers took John. They had made it clear that they wanted Sherlock but why did they not just kidnap Sherlock then? Could it have been that they wanted to inflict some pain mentally as well as physically before killing him? Or was it something, someone else?

"Mycroft…" Sherlock breathed. His brother kept tabs on him all the time; if Sherlock was kidnapped, Mycroft would be there before the kidnappers could even put a bullet in his brain. By kidnapping John and getting Sherlock to come to the place 'of his own accord', they had time to torture and kill Sherlock before his brother realised something was wrong.

"Clever. Very, very clever." He was outside the warehouse now, his breathing ragged from nerves.

Putting one hand on the door, Sherlock took a deep breath in and pushed. The first thing that he saw was John's mutilated body, still hanging from the shackles, at the other end of the warehouse, lit up in a pool of moonlight. Not really caring what happened next, Sherlock ran to John, needing to know that his army doctor was still alive. John didn't move, barely breathed, but Sherlock could see him breathing and that was what was important; John was alive. There was a gunshot and Sherlock cried out, grabbing John's body as he fell. At the sudden movement and weight, John's eyes fluttered open as the detective slid to the ground, clutching his left leg.

"Sherlock…" John's voice was cracked and unused. Sherlock turned his head up to John as there was another gunshot and blood sprayed from Sherlock's shoulder. Whimpering, the dark-haired man's hand went to his shoulder, already slick with blood.

"John. I found you."

"I knew you would."

"John, I…"

"Hush Sherlock, save your breath," John pleaded weakly. There was another gunshot and Sherlock curled over, retching. He had been shot in the stomach.

"John, I…" Sherlock gasped again, before passing out.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Here's chapter 8! Hopefully Sherlock isn't too OOC. If he is, please remember what he has gone through recently **** Please R&R and thanks to everyone who did!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

Chapter 8

Lestrade was slight worried when Sherlock didn't answer his phone. Sherlock always answered his phone, especially to Lestrade. So he called Mycroft, his last resort idea.

"Mycroft, its DI Lestrade."

"Ah, yes what has my brother done now?" Mycroft's voice was slick with just a hint of a sigh.

"He's vanished. John was kidnapped a week ago and Sherlock almost went crazy trying to find him. Then yesterday, Sherlock disappeared as well. Nobody has seen him for over 24 hours."

There was a very long pause before Mycroft said,

"Did he give any clues as to where John might be?"

"Somewhere in the warehouse along the Thames. There are too many for us to search alone."

"I'll have men out looking immediately. Thank you, Lestrade." Mycroft hung up and Lestrade hoped that he had done enough

…

John was screaming again, fire broiling through his veins. The drugs that they had given him and Sherlock were unknown to both of them and Sherlock had already passed out again. The captors had chained John and Sherlock together, drugged them and left. Pain and exhaustion were pulling John under and he knew that Sherlock hadn't been lucidly conscious since he first passed out. As the darkness slowing began to claim him, John heard yelling. Dragging his eyelids open, he saw a team of Mycroft's people storming into the building and then Mycroft himself came into view.

"My…croft," John gasped, almost surrendering to the darkness. Then he felt Mycroft's hands on his shoulders, shaking him very lightly. John yelled in agony and Mycroft called for an ambulance. As John lost consciousness, he said,

"Get Sherlock first." And then he was gone.

…

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he recognised the pristine whiteness as a hospital. He first thought was dull and then his mind went to John.

"John?" he croaked. "Where's John?" His brother answered and Sherlock caught a glimpse of him over by the window.

"He's in surgery. The doctors are trying to detoxify his bloodstream." Sherlock gulped.

"Of course. Bleach poisoning and unknown homemade drugs are awful." A wavering shadow-smile crossed his face and Mycroft came to sit by him.

"Sherlock, I need you to listen very carefully to me. Can you feel your left leg?"

Sherlock frowned and thought about his leg. Realising with a shock that he could feel anything from about mid-way through his thigh down, Sherlock panicked.

"Mycroft? What's going on?" His brother remained silent; he just pulled back the bedcovers so that Sherlock could see. Sherlock only had one leg. His left leg had been amputated. Suddenly, Sherlock was shaking, trembling and tears formed in his eyes. Mycroft wrapped an arm around him but he pushed it away. The only person the detective wanted right now was John.

"Go away."

"Sherlock…"

"No. Go play soldiers with Lestrade or start a war or something. I don't want you. Go away." Sherlock knew that his words stung but his brother was more than capable of dealing with it. As requested, Mycroft left the room and Sherlock was left to his thoughts. He considered life without a leg. Running would be much more difficult and people would treat him differently. John would treat him differently and that is what Sherlock feared the most. He didn't want John's opinion of him to change but he knew that it would. He loved John.

About 40 minutes later, two nurses wheeled a bed containing John into the room. Immediately alert, Sherlock asked if he was alright. One of the nurses looked sheepish and the other said

"He'll survive." Sherlock nodded slowly. He hadn't expected much. As soon as the nurses left the room, John opened his eyes.

"Of course I'll survive. I always do." He looked at Sherlock with an expression of gratitude and… was it love? A single tear cut a trail down Sherlock cheek and despite the pain it was obviously causing, John leaned over and brushed it gently away.

"Hey, what's wrong, Sherlock?"

"My left leg, John. They had to… to amputate it." Sherlock voice was small. "Don't think any different of me. Please." A watery, forgiving smile appeared on John's face.

"Sherlock." He shook his head. "I'd never think any different of you." The army doctor took the detective's hand in his own and without giving his head a single thought, Sherlock grasped John's hand, happy in the knowledge that he was there. And that he wasn't going anywhere.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Sorry for not updating for so long, have had exams but here is chapter 9! Hope you like it **** please R&R!**

Chapter 9

_Screaming. There were so many of them and John couldn't reach them all. Comrades, civilians and friends, all needing his attention. He ran over to the only friend he had left alive, Captain Jamie Wilson._

"_John," Jamie gasped but John shushed him. The doctor began to bandage the gunshot to Jamie's leg but as he did so, a grenade rolled up to them._

"_Run John, go!"_

"_I'm not leaving you!" Jamie pushed John with last of his strength and the strength of a dying man wanting to save his nearest friend is unimaginable. Just as the grenade went off, John slid under an abandoned car. He hit his head and everything exploded into whiteness as Jamie let out his death cry,_

"_God save the Queen!"_

John woke up screaming. Immediately, the agony in his torso assaulted his mind and John gasped, his breath coming quickly and weakly.

"John? Are you okay?" asked a familiar baritone next to him and he felt a cool, long-fingered hand slip into his own. Had it been any other time, John would have been terribly confused and embarrassed but he was in too pain (both physically and mentally) to care anymore. He clutched Sherlock's hand, his light in all the darkness and shadow, as his consciousness left him.

…

Mycroft Holmes hated seeing his little brother like this. Sherlock's usual cold, flint-like grey eyes were swimming with tears; partly out of pain; partly out of anger over his leg but mainly out of fear and worry about John. Sherlock showed no emotion anymore but Mycroft remembered the young boy with the curly black hair and huge grey eyes that saw wonder in everything and everyone. But that was before the teasing, the bullying and the indifference of his father until Sherlock learnt that nobody cared. Mycroft hated himself now for not being there for Sherlock when he needed him, not being there the young boy would walk in after a day of teasing and disappear into his room to cry. And over the years, the wonder drained from Sherlock, along with the other emotions apart from rage and hatred. He became ice-cold and it was all Mycroft's fault. Sometimes, he remembered his mother funeral. She had died in a car accident and Sherlock had been just five. He had found the dark-haired boy in his room later that day, with his father's revolver pressed to his temple. Mycroft had wrestled the gun from him and held him close whilst he cried.

"Why?" he had asked his little brother. "Why, Sherlock?" Sherlock's little voice had been weak and tearful.

"Because I want to be with her, Mycroft. I want my mummy back." It wasn't right. Five-year-olds shouldn't be suicidal. Then after everything, Sherlock had found John, the other side to his coin. They couldn't be more different but that didn't matter; they were two halves of the same whole. Even though neither of them would ever admit it, Mycroft never how much Sherlock and John relied on each other and loved each other. Decisively, Mycroft picked up his phone and began to make a few calls, leaving the broken ex-army doctor and the shattered consulting detective asleep, hand in hand.

…

Sherlock shivered, his long eyelashes parting. There was a hand laying limply in his own and for an unknown reason, he took the pulse of the man whose hand resided in his own. Weak and fast, the pulse of John Watson thrummed under Sherlock's thin fingers. He was alive. Sherlock frowned; of course he was alive; he was still here with him. So why was Sherlock suddenly feeling the need to check that his best friend was alive? Then the dream came back to him. He had merely dreamt John's death, even if at the time it had felt very real. He turned his gaze over to the blonde-haired man and a tear pricked his eye. The poor doctor had gone through so much and it was all Sherlock's fault. His feelings rollicked around inside of him and as much as he tried to delete them, push them away, snuff them out, he just couldn't. How did ordinary people do it? What with all these damned feelings? Sherlock thought. **Always **feeling; it drove him crazy just loving John. At this thought, an argument started up between his head and his heart.

_**John doesn't feel the same**_

_Of course he does! He loves me._

_**How could anyone love you? You're a sociopath. You have no feelings.**_

_John doesn't care. John loves me. And if I have no feelings, then what are these?_

_**They're, they're fake!**_

_The heart never lies, isn't that a saying?_

_**John doesn't love you!**_

But for the first time in his life, Sherlock's heart won the argument and he grasped John's hand tighter in his own.

"I think… I think I love you John Watson"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: This is the last chapter! Sorry… but if you want an epilogue, please tell me and I'll write one. **** Please R&R and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters**

Chapter 10

Sherlock turned uneasily in his sleep. He twitched as images assaulted his mind.

_Sherlock was running. He had to get away, away from Moriarty. He had to get to John. He dashed down one corridor and into darkness. Laughter, Moriarty's laughter ringing in his ears, he scrambled round in the choking blackness. Suddenly, a bright light spiked his eyes, momentarily blinding him but when his sight came back, Sherlock almost threw up. There was a pile of bodies in front him. Everyone he had ever known was there; his brother, his mother, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and his father. But worst of all, was the small prone body at the top of the pile. John lay, eyes wide open and unseeing, a bullet through his heart. _

"_No… no." Sherlock's voice trembled slightly. Then John sat up. Sherlock's heart leapt but John regarded him with cold, dead eyes. He indicated the bullet hole over his heart._

"_You did this."_

"_No, John. It was Moriarty…"_

"_No." John's voice was brittle. "You may not have pulled the trigger but it's your fault I'm dead, Sherlock. It's all your fault." The image faded but John's words grew louder and louder._

"_It's your fault I'm dead. It's your fault I'm dead! It's your fault I'm dead! It's your fault I'm dead! IT'S YOUR FAULT I'M DEAD. IT'S YOUR FAULT I'M DEAD! IT'S YOUR FAULT I'M DEAD!"_

Sherlock woke up screaming.

…

The nurse, Katherine Grace, who had been attending to the two unusual men, was confused. Her patients were a short blonde haired man with several gunshots, some recent, some years old and a tall dark haired man also sporting several fresh gunshots. She hadn't asked them what had happened and she didn't know how long they had been out for. She didn't even know their names. But when she heard a scream from the room, her maternal instinct kicked in. Katherine ran in; saw the dark-haired man sat up rigidly and rushed over. He was not screaming anymore but his pale grey eyes showed fear, unconditional terror. It was the terror of man who was not scared very often. She began to soothe her patient.

"It's okay, sir. You're safe, in a hospital and my name's Katherine. I'm your nurse." The man turned his relentless gaze upon her and began to take deep breaths. The pain had obviously just hit.

"John? Where's John? I need John!" The man was manic.

"Who's John, dear?"

"John Watson. Army doctor, served in Afghanistan, was sent home with a shoulder injury five years ago. Short, blue-brown eyes, blonde hair, recently became my companion," the man said rapidly, his gaze never leaving Katherine, nor losing his ferocity.

"John's here." She waved to the bed next to her. His gaze flicked to the shorter man and he visibly relaxed.

"He's alive?"

"Yes," She said simply. The man smiled, slightly crookedly.

"Katherine, am I right? Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes." He held out a long-fingered hand and she shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes. Are you okay, now?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, the dream…" Sherlock looked nervous. "I'm fine now, thank you."

"A thank you? Oh, he likes you." A cracked unused voice came from the other side of Katherine and Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"John," he breathed. Katherine turned to see her second patient sit up, John Watson.

"Ah ah ah, lay back down, the both of you. You'll only aggravate your injuries." As per requested, the men lay back and the blonde haired one looked up at her.

"So what have you done then?"

"What do you mean?" She asked, flustered and confused.

"Sherlock thanked you. He never thanks anyone. What did you do?" Sherlock smirked at John's deduction.

"She helped me wake up from a bad dream. I'm sure you understand that better than anyone, doctor."

The look that crossed John's face was one of fear, loss, pain and knowledge. He nodded slightly. Katherine was intrigued by the relationship between the two men. One seemed mainly cold whereas the other was understanding and kind. They seemed nothing less than in love.

…

After the nurse left, Mycroft entered. His brother rolled his eyes but John looked pleased to see him.

"Mycroft," he said with a small smile.

"I have a present for my brother." Mycroft gave a smile in return and handed Sherlock a box. Brow furrowed, Sherlock opened it and then a little smile of gratitude slid on to his face before vanishing again. He lifted out of the box, a carbon-fibre leg blade. John grinned. His eyes lighting up, Sherlock pulled back the covers and, after treating John to a spectacular view of him in his boxers, he attached the replacement to his left leg. As he tried to get up, Mycroft gave Sherlock a hand and the brothers hobbled around the room; one dressed in a tidy, sharp grey suit, the other in a pair of boxers which incidentally brought John's attention to the bandages over the man's shoulder and across his stomach. Mycroft noticed John's distress and guided his wayward brother back to the bed.

"Now Sherlock, I think you may want to console the good doctor here that you are okay." Sherlock's gaze switched to John and he read his friend's distress like a book. With a sigh, Sherlock said,

"I'm okay John."

"Promise?"

"I promise." And as Mycroft left, he looked back to see a pale, unmarked hand reach out and grasp a tanned scarred one, never to let go. Finally, he thought. They've found what they've lost. Neither of them is gone.

_Finis_


	11. Epilogue

**A/N: Okay, so one person asked for an epilogue so I wrote it****. Hope it just finishes everything off for everyone. **

**Finis means end in Latin by the way**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

Epilogue

It had been almost 2 months since John and Sherlock had been allowed to return to 221B Baker Street and John was updating his blog for the first time.

_Hello readers. I'm sorry that I haven't written up anything in a very long time; it's been stressful. As you probably know, Sherlock and I have spent a lot of time in hospital and Sherlock had to have his leg amputated. Thank you for all the well-wishes and yes, we are okay and well on the way to recovery. DI Lestrade has begun to give us cases again so there will be more case reports on the way, even if these will probably contain less running around London. Sherlock assures me that he is perfectly capable of running but he is still slightly unsteady on his feet and so I'm not sure that we'll be rushing around for a while._

Here John paused, wondering how to put the next bit. He decided just to go all out with it and carried on writing.

_Sherlock and I are now in a relationship. A more than platonic one. It seems that my love for him was not unrequited and we are very happy together. But I know you just want to say, 'I knew it!' Or 'I told you so!' and so there is your opportunity. Hopefully, I'll update with more cases soon. _

_This is Dr John Watson, over and out._

He read the post back to himself, realising that it was a little more light-hearted than usual but well, he had been through a lot and his readers didn't need to know all of that. As he submitted the post, Sherlock entered the room, still limping slightly on his left leg.

"What are you up to?"

"Writing my blog."

"Ah yes. Of course, my erstwhile blogger must keep our fans updated. Did you write about us?" he asked

"Us as in you and me in a relationship? Yes, I did," John said with a smile. Sherlock nodded, also smiling. He ran his slender fingers through the doctor's short blonde hair.

"My doctor, my blogger, my John. Don't ever leave me. Remember through everything I do, everything I say, I always love you. There will be times when I do not appreciate you or I offend you or - " John held up his hand, cutting Sherlock off.

"Sherlock Holmes, you're worth the work." The detective smiled and John smiled too, his fingers curling around Sherlock's. Neither of them were going anywhere. Neither of them were gone.

_Finis_


End file.
